Everything
by kazumigirl
Summary: Holmes understands everything and nothing. Watson is here, but he's also not. What's going on?


**Everything**

He was feverish. He knew that much. The kind of fever, a deep one, that tore one between being asleep and awake. The kind that could ache all night. The kind that brought uncontrollable shivers.

Holmes was lucky enough. Not to have the fever, of course, but to have Watson. He felt him dip down onto the bed, bringing a cool hand to his burning forehead. Holmes heard him moan a little, as if his friend were a small child with a cold rather than an almost-intolerable grown man.

He played possum, and felt Watson lay beside him, brushing his knuckles against the detective's flushed cheek. That was the good thing about Watson. Despite his medical training, he was never afraid to get close to Holmes, even when he was contageous. Holmes rolled over, opening his eyes just a little, and Watson leaned in to kiss his forehead.

"I feel awful," Holmes croaked crankily.

"I know," Watson said quietly.

"Could I have another blanket?" He snuggled against the doctor, still unable to keep warm.

Watson wrapped an arm around him. "No," he said. "Your body temperature's already dangerously high."

They stayed like that, Holmes still shivering and achy, but at least he had Watson. He buried his face in the crook of his neck, and Watson gently rubbed his back, staring up at the ceiling.

-----------

He woke up alone, but no longer cold, just achy. He pressed his hand into the mattress, the side Watson had slept on, and looked around. He'd probably gone out to see a patient, or perhaps he was downstairs. Holmes climbed out of bed, but quickly sat back down, his legs feeling weak, like jelly, and pain pulled at him in various places. He felt his head, suddenly feeling dizzy, and removed his hand slowly. He brought only his fingertips back, gingerly touching bandages. One on his forhead, a smaller one to the left of his nose.

He moved to the door, and his heart stopped when he realized it was locked. From the _outside_. He jiggled the handle a bit, and took a step backwards, trying to sort out all theories _why_ it might be locked. Mrs. Hudson was the one with the master key. Had she locked him in? Was she finally going to do away with him?

He moved to the window, and found it too was guarded. Sealed shut. Recently, judging from the color and texture of the paint, caulk, and glue mixture. Most puzzling indeed.

He busied himself the best he could, mostly playing the violin and looking through notes for various cases, but eventually just went back to sleep, feeling exhausted just moving about the room.

He awoke to fingers checking the bandages on face. He opened his eyes and sighed. It was Watson, hardly paying attention to him, more interested in the covered abrasions and visible bruises. It wasn't insensitivity, Holmes knew. It was just the way Watson was. After nodding slightly, the doctor's eyes met Holmes'. He chuckled a bit.

"They did a shoddy job on those adhesives," he snorted.

Holmes' brows furrowed as he slowly, and painfully pushed himself up on his elbows. "It wasn't you?"

It was _always_ Watson. Holmes didn't trust anybody else with his body, and Watson didn't either. A hospital never saw a glimpse of them.

Watson looked away briefly, shaking his head and shrugging a shoulder. He sat on the bed. Holmes gripped his arm to pull himself up into a full sitting position.

"Did you know that Mrs. Hudson locked the door and sealed the window, assuring my escape was futile?" He asked. "Next she'll light a match and stick it under the door." He raised his eyes, picturing all of this. "Not before stuffing some dry straw in first."

The doctor rolled his eyes, a half-smile still plastered to his face. He shook his head. "She feeds you, she runs your errands, she lets you skip rent occassionally, and you _still_ think she's out to cause you harm."

"You just wait, old boy." Holmes warned, half jokingly.

For some reason, Watson didn't mention anything about the doors and windows being locked, but Holmes didn't mind too much. He was so sore he wasn't sure if he could even make it down the stairs, let alone out the front door and outside. Watson read his paper, Holmes played his violin, Watson cleaned his pistol, Holmes worked on cases. They didn't speak much, but it wasn't unusual. Sometimes they could go for hours about their own business, just happy to have the other nearby.

Some time later, Holmes felt his eyes growing heavy, and he tried his best to stay awake. He didn't understand why he was so tired all the time. At least today. Watson took notice, occassionally glancing up at him from whatever he was doing, and finally suggested, "Why don't you rest?"

"Nonsense," Holmes yawned. "It's only four-twenty."

"You _need_ rest," the doctor said sternly, moving towards him. He tugged at his arm, pulling him to his feet. He led him to the bed, and Holmes was surprised at how welcoming the bed was. Watson climbed in beside him, half sitting, half laying.

"Watson..." he said between constant yawns, his world growing soft and blurry.

"Hm?" He felt the doctor's hand sweep across his forehead, just under his bangs.

The world became more blurry. Holmes wasn't sure he'd been planning to say anything beyond his name. He tried to think of something, so he didn't just sound desperate for him to stay there beside him, but the stroke of the doctor's hand was so soothing it was almost hypnotic.

------------

Fingers worked to remove the bandages, quickly and gently, but it wasn't Watson. Holmes just knew it wasn't. He opened his eyes to see another man, probably a bit older than Watson, looming over him. He was wearing medical gloves, something that also indicated it hadn't been Watson, who never wore gloves when tending to the injury-prone detective, no matter how bloody his hands got. The man smiled, a shy, unfamilar smile. A_ doctor_ smile.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," he said in an equally weak voice. A false sense of connection. Watson could speak kindly to people, but always let them know he was a strong individual.

Holmes wanted to sit up, but he felt so dizzy. His eyes traveled the room for Watson, but he was not there. Didn't he know there was another doctor right in his own room, putting his gloved hands all over _his_ patient? The only familar faces were Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Lestrade?

"How are you feeling today?" The doctor asked, checking a few more abrasions on his arms.

Holmes didn't say anything. He shifted slightly, and winced, trying to keep it to himself. The doctor nodded, and retrieved a stethescope, hurriedly pulling up the tail of Holmes' shirt and placing the knob to his chest. The detective winced, feeling the cold metal. Where in the world was Watson? To another doctor this might as well be rape.

"Mrs. Hudson said she heard you moving about the room today," the doctor continued, in a tone that made Holmes sound like a naughty toddler. "That's good."

The detective still said nothing. The doctor fondled him a bit more, fingering various cuts and bruises, making small-talk with Mrs. Hudson that Holmes hardly paid any attention to. The doctor then, still chatting with the landlady, prepared some alcohol and cloth, cleaning the wounds quickly. Watson always warned Holmes what he was about to do, and always did it slowly, despite the pain. He wanted to make sure the wounds were clean. He would talk to him the entire time, telling him to keep his eyes on his own, sometimes making him by repeatedly tilting his chin up.

"He won't talk to me," Mrs. Hudson told the doctor, as if Holmes weren't even there. "Yet I hear him speaking up here by himself all the time."

_By himself?_ If hadn't been for Watson, he would have been all by himself that afternoon. He wondered if he should tell the doctor that Mrs. Hudson had him held prisoner.

"Won't speak a word to me either," Lestrade said. "I've been here everyday this week and not a sound comes from his mouth."

Now this was interesting. He hadn't seen Lestrade since...when was his last case anyway?

The doctor sighed. "Head injuries can be very mysterious-" he chuckled at his own joke. A detective with a _mysterious_ injury- "but you must also remember that emotional trauma can slow the healing process, and sometimes scar it as well."

"It has only been three months," Lestrade said helpfully, shrugging. "And he's only been conscious for two."

Mrs. Hudson placed a hand to her heart. "What are we going to do, Dr. Landers?"

Dr. Landers stared at Holmes, and Holmes stared back at him, daring him to answer. He wasn't some horse with a broken leg. Why didn't they just _ask_ him? Tell him, more like it. Tell him what was going on. He glanced at the door impatiently, wanting Watson to storm in and shoo them out. Watson would check Holmes over and over, bitching about the doctor's careless work, and re-do it all himself. He would then kiss Holmes and tell him he was sorry, and Holmes would pretend to be angry with him, but secretly be smiling.

"You may want to consider an institution," Dr. Landers said quietly. "His condition may be beyond your control."

Lestrade looked sadly at Holmes, like he was viewing his body at his funeral. " 'Be a real shame to lose him," he said quietly.

"This is _his _home," Mrs. Hudson said. "I could not send him away, Doctor."

"You wouldn't be able to care for him," the doctor replied quietly, giving her a look like she was an idiot. He rubbed her shoulder. "He would need to be in a place where special doctors could look over him."

That's _here_, Holmes wanted to say, but for some reason couldn't. He had a special doctor that looked over him. All the time. Where the hell was that doctor-speaking of which?

Mrs. Hudson dabbed her eyes, and Lestrade led her out of the room. Dr. Landers shook his head, like Holmes was the most pitiful sight he'd ever laid eyes on. He too left the room, and Holmes' brows furrowed. He glanced at the wall, and then quickly turned his head when he heard a noise at the door. Watson was standing there.

"You missed a delightful scene," Holmes said, wincing slightly as he sat up.

Watson was at his side in a moment, pushing him back down. His eyes trailed over the fresh bandages and alcohol-stained abrasions. To Holmes' satisfaction, he began to complain.

"This is ridiculous!" he snapped, shaking his head. "This is careless work."

Holmes waited for him to tear the bandages away and start over, but he didn't. He must have noticed Holmes' noticing, because he climbed onto the bed and gently took the detective's face in his hands, sprinkling kisses all over his face.

"Watson-" Holmes tried to keep from kissing him back, because as much he loved it, he wanted answers right now. "Watson, I must speak with you. Something troubles me."

Watson shut him up, finding the sensitive spot on his neck and nipping there, moving his hands around him in ways that always made the detective light-headed. He closed his eyes and gave way to the doctor's seduction, but Watson only brought them down onto the mattress, and pulled away.

"I'm sorry," he said, tracing his index finger along one of the smaller cuts on his face.

Holmes assumed he was talking about Dr. Landers. He asked, "What's going on?"

Watson kissed him again, and Holmes suddenly felt drowsy for the second time that day. His head throbbed and so did different parts of his battered body. He held onto Watson tightly, not wanting to disappear into slumber again. For all he knew he could wake up in somebody else's house, the residents shaking their heads sadly, not caring to explain anything.

"Are you dizzy?" Watson asked, still kissing him, but eventually parting their lips, just a little.

"Not much," Holmes slurred.

The doctor smiled, but it was a sad smile. He laid down beside him. Holmes' vision blurred, and the last thing he remembered seeing was Watson's beautiful face, mouthing something. Knowing how to lip-read, he could make out bits and pieces between distorted images.

"Go to sleep," he was saying, and something else.

------------

It was dark out when Holmes awoke from the nightmare. It had been dark, the mysterious location reeking of stale smoke and sweat. He was tied to something, and even awake, he could still feel the pain in his wrists and forearms. Shadows had beat him, stabbed him, and through the throbbing and bleeding, he could hear Watson. He could hear his suppressed cries, coughing, choking. All of these terrible sounds, and he could not see him.

He turned his head, and Watson was lying beside him, unharmed. He rolled over to face Holmes.

"Are you alright?" He asked, running his hand through Holmes' dark hair, damp with sweat.

Holmes suddenly felt strange, and the familar feelings flooded through him. Both the physical and emotional. He _knew_ something was wrong, and not knowing what almost frightened him. He swallowed hard, and was suddenly unable to speak again. Watson sat up halfway, and pulled him against him, kissing his head.

"It's fine," he whispered, and Holmes had a sinking suspicion that he knew something about all of this.

"No, it's not," he finally managed. "Watson, please tell me what's going on."

Watson stared into his eyes, his own blue eyes glittering in the dark. He looked down at Holmes' hand, brushing his thumb over his chaffed wrist. Holmes' gaze followed him. He knew Watson was not going to answer him. Something just told him he wouldn't, and he settled for a kiss, closing the short distance between their faces. Watson kissed him back, and being so scared and confused, it was the most welcoming kiss in the world, Holmes decided.

-------------

"I don't want to send him away," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head. "I won't."

Lestrade nodded. "I understand." He stared into his empty teacup. "He's a good man, despite his cocky attitude." He looked back up at her from his place at the table. "Do you know what you plan to do with him then?"

"Take care of him just like I always do," the landlady shrugged. "Dr. Watson would have wanted it that way."

"Rest his soul," Lestrade whispered, nodding. His brows furrowed slightly. "Do you think that's who he talks to? Do you think it's Watson?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded, sniffling. "I think so."

"Do you think he understands that he's gone?"

She shook her head, folding her lips inward. "That's what breaks my heart, and that's why I won't have him committed." She smiled a little, toying with a handkerchief. " I guarantee you that the doctor would have looked after him the same way."

The End....


End file.
